let the dark waltz begin
by liar.faker
Summary: This time there's no flower-keeping game.


**let the dark waltz begin**

. . .

. . .

She feels it again. It's this horrifying feeling of his presence. Again. She refuses to open her eyes, though. Not this time. Maybe it's another illusion her sick mind creates, and it will go away without hurting her. She squeezes her eyes shut and grits her teeth.

Who is she trying to fool?

This monster does not show mercy.

"You promised." Lydia's trembling voice comes from under her sheets where she's hiding from him. Like a small girl. Like a kid afraid of the imaginary creatures lurking in the dark.

"You promised you'll leave me alone. I did everything you told me to!" She cries under the covers. If she had any make up on her face, it would make her look like a scared panda. Suddenly there's a weight falling on her bed, next to her, and she feels trapped.

She gasps for breath.

Her heart races.

She's suffocating.

. . .

. . .

The full moon peeps through her bedroom window like an irritating, nosy neighbour. Lydia hugs her knees while she sits slumped on her bed. She looks like a small girl in that pink pajamas. _A temptress like her__—__in a baggy rag like this, who would have thought? _The man lying next to her looks her up and down. Lydia's chin is quivering, the corners of her mouth turned down, her lips pressed into a tight line. Afraid of a big bad wolf, aren't you?

It's eerily quiet outside. There are many types of silence, some of them relaxing, soothing your mind, and some of them sinister and deathly, fraught with danger. Her stalker is an embodiment of the latter. It's like he's been born out of darkness. The most ominous one that creeps around the churchyard shrouded in mist.

When a finger trails down her cheek, and then starts stroking her hair, Lydia's eyes go wide as she opens her mouth ready to scream. All that comes from her throat is a muffled groan, weak and helpless. A rough hand clamps over her throat, a pair of lips brushes against her ear.

"You never call me by my name," he says in a sad, low voice. He pretends to look disappointed and heartbroken, but Lydia is smarter than that. She knows how perverse his mindfuck game can get.

"I thought we were close."

"You promised—" She gasps.

"Not yet."

. . .

. . .

She wakes up, sitting up straight, desperately trying to catch her breath. Her trembling hands instinctively go to her neck, checking for a bite mark or a scratch. He seems to love leaving scratches down her body. When his fingernails dig into her skin he sweet-talks to her with his hot breath running down her shoulders. He says her skin is so soft, delicate, paper-thin.

There's no moon to cast some light in the place she's staying, but even in the baleful darkness she knows it's not her room. The sheets are gray and dirty, the bed creaks when she shifts in it, and the walls seem to be falling apart.

Dust, there's dust everywhere. It always makes her sneeze.

Lydia carefully places her feet on the floor, trying to tread as lightly as possible so the wooden floor doesn't make any sound. She looks down at her toenails painted pink, matching her pajamas. She remembers she spent all day looking for the right shade of nail polish. Maybe she should have taken some self-defense lessons instead of staring at herself in the mirror.

The stairs never seemed so high and steep. It takes her forever to get down, holding on to the rail, keeping her legs from turning into a jelly. With a breath of relief she finally gets to the ground floor. As if on cue, slow orchestral music blares out in the air, frightening Lydia to death. Her heart can't stop pounding, making her chest hurt from so much pressure. She freezes in the doorway to the vast living room, or rather, to what is left of it.

The room is lit with what seems like a hundred candles, white candles burning bright. A bold move on the part of someone who died in a fire, Lydia muses.

Her stalker—Peter, Peter Hale, she corrects herself, deciding to call a devil by his name—is patiently waiting for her, his hands clasped behind his back. A pair of icy cold blue eyes bores into her.

All of a sudden Lydia Martin—_academically, one of the finest students, and socially, displaying outstanding leadership qualities, a real leader_—stands in front of a man haunting her in her dreams, and she feels completely naked. Overpowered. He crawls under her skin, sending shivers down her spine.

"Let me go." She gulps, hugging her arms to feel a bit safer, "Please."

He's still wearing the leather jacket and a pair of worn out jeans, and they would look hilarious together: he with his badass attire and she in her candy pink pajamas. But Lydia doesn't feel like laughing.

She feels like running away with the speed of sound, getting as far from her devilish stalker as possible. But in her case, the possibility amounts to 0%. So she stays, petrified with fear.

"But it's our birthday," he raises his eyebrows, "we should celebrate."

"_Our_ birthday?" She chokes out as he slowly approaches her with a wolfish grin stuck on his face.

"I've been reborn tonight. Thanks to you, Lydia." He licks his thin lips standing a few inches away from the shivering girl. Her hair is a mess, but it's a beautiful strawberry blonde mess he loves to play with.

Before she can protest (which she would never do anyway because of paralyzing fear embracing her) he takes her by the hand and leads to the center of the room. The candle light brings out his ghostly, sharp features, but also the sky-blue colour of his eyes.

Lydia's body stiffens when she feels his touch, his other hand traveling to the small of her back, keeping her even closer to him. Peter Hale is no teenage boy with a silly crush on her. He is a mature man, fully aware of his strengths, and knowing exactly what he wants. Right now he wants to sway her to the slow music playing in the room, and Lydia recognizes it's the Dark Waltz from The Phantom of the Opera.

So much for a subtle allusion.

. . .

. . .

_Dance me into the night_

_Underneath the moon shining so bright_

_Let the dark waltz begin_

_Oh let me wheel - let me spin_

"Are you real?" She sighs, still tense and frightened, as he slowly leads her with a perfect sense of rhythm.

"Yes." Peter whispers against her forehead.

"Then why—" Lydia starts but Peter cuts her off. He stops moving to the music and wraps his arms around her tiny figure instead. Like a snake. A boa constrictor. A deadly embrace. The intoxicating proximity of their bodies makes Lydia feel dizzy. Her chest feels heavy, in fact her whole body does.

"Remember the last time I was holding you this way?"

Lydia gives him just a faint nod. Yes, she remembers. She will never forget that moment when her stalker, looking like one of her peers, with those innocent, trusting blue eyes, was kissing her passionately inside this empty house that turned into a ruin a second later.

Emotionally, Lydia is a ruin herself.

His sharp finger brings her chin up so she looks him straight in the eyes, and her breathing quickens. Lydia squeezes her eyes shut, a tear falling down her cheek as a result. His tongue runs over the wet trace of the teardrop, and he revels in its salty taste.

She knows it's coming. His lips are hovering over hers like he's waiting for the ideal moment.

This waiting seems to take forever, or maybe it's Lydia's fear that distorts the axis of time. When her eyes open for a moment, she's already kissing the young Peter Hale, the intriguing, mysterious guy that wanted to hold her hand in the garden and gave her a flower. The Earth starts to spin even faster as she deepens the kiss, placing both her hands on the back of his neck. It's her Peter, the gentle one, compulsively drawn to cute, but narcissistic girls.

When her eyes open while breaking the kiss, it's again the Peter that terrifies her, literally drives her crazy, the fierce one who tortures her every way he can think of. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. The master of manipulation and scheme.

"Happy birthday, Lydia," he smirks and bends over to kiss her again.

When her pale lips meet his hungry ones, Lydia Martin realizes he won't let her go so easily.

Not yet.

Or maybe never.

. . .

. . .

.

.

.

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**A/N**: This is my first attempt on Pydia ever, dedicated to a lovely _oltha-heri_ from tumblr who encouraged me to write something for the kick-ass ship that is Pydia.


End file.
